Missing What's Gone

I slipped tonight.  I was trying to feed Bean his dinner while the boys' father was busy preparing real food for the rest of the family (i.e., not pureed peas, rice cereal, and tiny chunks of broccoli and chicken).  Bean was distracted, too hungry to focus on his food even though it was right in front of him, and looking over his shoulder at one of his brothers racing by.  I made kissing noises to get his attention, sitting with the spoon poised to enter his mouth.  No luck, so I cooed Monkey's name without even thinking.  Unsurprisingly, I still got no response from Bean.  My throat caught, and in seconds, my eyes filled with tears.  In that moment, I missed my little man so much.  I miss how he ate so precisely, I miss how he snuggled into me while I fed him his bottles, I miss how he splashed gleefully in his bathtub, all the while looking to me for confirmation of how funny he was.  He wouldn't laugh until I laughed, just to be sure I was watching him being silly.

The routine is the same - I feed Bean his dinner, then give him a bath, towelling off his downy head and making raspberries on his Buddha belly as I zip him into some fleecy pajamas and then snuggle him while I bring him to his crib.  But, oh, it's so, so different.  Bean thinks I'm nice enough, he guesses.  After all, I make him laugh and I kiss him and love on him, but he knows his mom is where it's at (This is as it should be.  I know that.)  Monkey, on the other hand, soaked up my love like a dry sponge.  He sank into my arms and knew - even at 13 months - what me raising my eyebrows at him meant.  He needed me.  Every ounce of me.  And I gave it to him, all of me, I gave and gave and gave.  And oh, I miss that so much.  I miss him tonight.  And the tears I've been holding back for two weeks are running down my face tonight.